


wrap yourself around me

by seaswept



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Batfamily (DCU), Body Swap, Feelings Realization, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25010923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaswept/pseuds/seaswept
Summary: It was just Batman's luck that his run in with a magic-user ends up with him being swapped with Superman for two whole weeks. Post-Justice League with minor adjustments.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent/Lois Lane (Past)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 233
Collections: Superbat Reverse Bang 2020





	wrap yourself around me

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you endlessly for being so patient with me Frauke!! This bigbang wouldn't have been possible without you and the seeds of plot you gave me and also, pointing out this reversebang to me in general.
> 
> Art by the amazingly talented thegoodthebadandtheart [here](https://thegoodthebadandtheart.tumblr.com/post/622431884985696256/my-art-for-the-superbat-reverse-bang-2020)
> 
> Mild warnings: implied underage relationship in a conversation.
> 
> About the AU: I tried my best to expand what we've gotten in canon, and imagined where it would lead in the future, adding a majority of bat adjacent cast because we can't have an older Bruce Wayne without his kids in the fray.  
> In this particular AU, I've given Bruce some closure on Jason Todd/Red Hood in a standalone film by bringing Jason back from the dead in a thriller revenge targeting Bruce and Tim, paralleling Clark finding about Kara/not being the last Kryptonian and the fall out of being declared dead, and getting Tim to be set up for a sort of Young Justice crew with the seeds of Konner (a convoluted Luthor plot) planted.  
> Barry and Victor are off having their own adventures until Nightwing brings them all together on a possible mission from outer space? Point is, there's a lot of moving pieces in the background of this bigbang that I hope to expand on someday.  
> So please forgive my long-winded conversations about certain things and certain people.
> 
> Another note: Joker is neither Phoenix nor Leto. In this AU, I've picked someone like Pete Davidson to play him, but really you can pick whomever suits.

“Sounds like cosmic comeuppance to me.” Zatanna is distracted which is exactly what Bruce doesn’t need. What he needs is a way to fix this without having to resort to drastic measures, like calling the only other magic user in his contacts.

“Zee, I need you to come back to Gotham to fix this.” It’s more of an order than a plea but he does try. 

“No can do, Brucie, didn’t I mention sorcerer school is in a completely different dimension? Well, it’s more like a pocket dimension in our dimension if you want to get technical. Not my area of expertise but I can understand the basics unlike Shauna, the bane of my existence. No relation to your Bane, or any other Banes thereof. Really, sincerely, I'm on 72 hours of this magical red bull elixir a guy on the fourth floor cooked up and behind on two projects. Even if I could help, it's not in my bag of tricks. Curses like that are _very_ old school."

"Zatanna, I'll owe you." Bargains were practically the currency for magic-types. Bruce would play ball if he could get this problem solved quickly.

Clark, who had been studiously looking away, perked up like a gopher catching a scent at the offer. He didn’t know he could even make that expression.

"Tempting, but not worth the amount of forms I'd have to fill out to be excused from class."

"I've seen you blink out of existence only to appear behind someone. I just need your expert opinion on this situation and you can get back to your illegal stimulants."

"Bridges from this dimension to our dimension are strictly monitored to encourage the nunnery effect on us or to make us thaumaturgical geniuses. It's a toss up. I really have to go, Bruce, I'm monitoring the effects of prolonged levitation of living animals and the goldfish are not going to monitor themselves. Also, not illegal, mostly frowned upon. But it's like magical hunger games for a post-grad spot ergo leeway." 

"If there's lines of communication between worlds, then there must be-" 

"Phones exist intra-dimensionally, or at least the concept of phones. Some of these jokers are still using bananas but the reasoning still stands. Okay, nice talking to you, Bruce, tell Dicky-bird to stop avoiding my messengers. Rabbits are literally the most harmless species I could've sent him."

"Don't involve me in your five-year plan of seduction." Resignation sounds odd in Clark’s tone of voice. Exasperation is much more familiar to him.

“You’re my ten-year plan, B, bye bye.” She hangs up with her laughter still echoing supernaturally through the line. 

“So, that went well. Who’s next on the line?” Clark asked, sliding his hands into his pockets in a move that would’ve looked calm if Bruce was in his body but the line of his shoulders is all wrong. He looks awkward and Bruce is starting to get a metaphysical headache at the sight of his body without him in it, watching himself from a different point of view warranted a measure of panic he couldn’t quite muster. Descartes would have a field day.

“Do kryptonians have a flight or fight response?” He mutters to himself. Does his human consciousness somehow change the kryptonian brain he’s inhabiting. He had stolen some of Luthor’s research on his Doomsday project and the Kryptonian known as General Zod but it hadn’t been a priority afterward. All he had really wanted to know was how Kryptonite would affect the aliens and where it would hurt to strike first.

“You know what they say the first sign of madness is right?” Clark jokes with a wry smile on his face.

Bruce blinks, lungs contracting slow enough to give him pause. He hasn’t felt this healthy since he was in his early 20s.

“I was hoping to avoid this phone call.” He offers this bit of honesty because he’s suddenly sure he’s gotten the better part of the bargain, landing in Clark’s body instead of someone else, even when he doesn’t know how exactly the spell chose who to switch.

“Who is it?” Bruce’s face knows how to worry, but watching Clark do it is like watching a mask contort into exaggeration. 

“Have you ever heard of John Constantine?”

-

John doesn’t answer, which is par for the course. Phones only exist when he needs you, not the other way around. He had already sent Alfred to recalibrate every sensor he had available to the signature of either sorcerer that had caught him in the crossfire of their alley spat. Batman had dropped like a stone and they had disappeared in what looked like guilt and anger from the camera feed from a nearby building. 

Clark had been at the lake house, waiting for him to come back to ask him about the resurgence of Pamela Isley and if she would cross the bay to Metropolis because there had been an epidemic of mysterious rashes at the university. 

When he too, dropped to the floor in plain view of Alfred. Only to get up, disoriented and acting like Bruce, because he _was_ Bruce. 

It had been a routine patrol. It was an unlucky mistake that had caused him more grief than separating two angry drunks would have. He really hated magic.

“We should set up some ground rules.” Bruce folds his hands together across his lap, sitting on the loveseat across from his body. His jaw flexes as Clark leans forward. The look in his eyes is too many things at once for Bruce to decipher but he stays calm, even, in control of what he can be in control of.

“I think I can handle being Bruce Wayne for a couple of days.” He spreads his legs, sprawling out in what he probably thinks is lazily charming. Bruce smothers the urge to snort. Tim would figure him out in a matter of minutes. 

"Sure, you've probably read enough of the tabloid fodder to pull off the playboy and we can concoct a story about having a concussion so Alfred can tail you in the boardroom. It's hardly the first time. But you're forgetting the other part." Bruce watches, amused at the abrupt change in stance.

"I don't-concussed? Bruce, why would you-" He gets up to pace and takes a deep breath, coughing out slightly as he inhaled too sharply.

Do kryptonians even need to breathe, he wonders idly.

"Okay, fine, I'll bite. What other part?" He crosses his arms, winced, probably from his old shoulder wound. The muscle never regained the same amount of movement as he previously had.

"Being Batman, Clark. I can reschedule business meetings and you can feign hitting on people at whatever soiree I'm being forced to attend this week but Gotham never sleeps." 

Once upon a time, those words had meant something different. The slogan of a city that was always on the brink of a good time, until the good times turned rotten, and the rot had spread under the very foundation of the city. Gotham had turned from party capital to drug capital to horror show in the span of decades. The Wayne family tragedy was only his personal story in a book of thousands. 

"Hey, you're lighting up." Clark says unbearably gentle and his ears still catch it. If he focuses, he can hear the heart that should belong to him beat a little too fast. He's touching Bruce, trying to-

His eyes itch, a mild burn that washes everything in red. 

"How do I?" Bruce doesn't feel the panic. It just feels like he's out of control. He doesn't know how to control this body. His breathing seizes, comes out short and fast.

"Can you hear Alfred? Is he upstairs or downstairs?" Clark keeps his voice steady even though his heart rate is still elevated. Alfred is in the kitchen, he focuses harder, He's in the kitchen, washing up the last of the dishes. He always insisted it was meditative even though they had a perfectly good dishwasher. Tim used it as extra storage for his more heat sensitive experiments.

"Good, you can open your eyes now, Bruce." He wasn't aware of closing them to begin with, but he trusts the command. Clark is close enough that he can see the stress lines around his own eyes.

"I get it, you know. Gotham is important to you. Being the Bat is part of that. I won't take that away from you. I'm just supplanting you until the spell runs its course." 

He can almost see the wry smile he gives Clark in the reflection of his dark eyes. 

"I guess we both have things to learn." 

-

Clark clears his throat after Bruce hits the last makeshift target with a precise shot of his heat vision. The waste basket is still smoldering slightly so he blows on the flames until a thin layer of frost clings to the mangled mesh and ashes. 

“Flying is...tricky.” He had been saving it for last, but Bruce had gotten a handle of the rest of his abilities quicker than Clark thought he would. Stationary objects weren’t the same as a falling chunk of a building or a person but Bruce was fast on his feet when he needed to act. As long as he had the basics down, he’d be fine. 

“Tricky how?” Bruce drags Clark’s voice down, not into Batman's register, but it’s deeper than what Clark knows he sounds like on a regular basis, like Bruce is demanding the attention of a room just by being himself. Except he’s in Clark’s body. It makes his head spin if he thinks too long on it so he tries to focus on figuring out how to explain flying to someone who has never had the ability to do so. Flying hadn’t been inherent to Clark either, but Bruce relied on gadgets and his own strength to get the job done. It was definitely going to be tricky. 

He looks up to the ceiling of the cavern, measuring by eyesight. 

“I’ve never had to explain how to fly. I just do it. We might have to move locations. The first couple of times I tried this, I left craters.” He eyes the floor, speculating on its durability. 

“Just give me the theory first.” Bruce crosses his arms, putting his foot down without actually doing so.

That had worked for the rest of his abilities. A lot of his enhanced senses and power came naturally, stronger and faster than a regular human and boosted with the Earth’s sun radiation but flight was something altogether different.

“You know that feeling you get when you float in a swimming pool, the buoyancy makes your body weight feel like nothing? It’s like that but without water, and you’re using a leaping motion instead of swimming. That’s the initial phase, once you get horizontal enough, it’s easier to propel yourself forward. Landing takes some practice, you can slow down into it or focus on the ground. It’s not the precision you’re looking for, but knowing how much you should weigh on the ground.” He ends with a shrug. Bruce looks unimpressed. 

“You break the laws of physics with mind over matter?” 

“Like I said, I don’t know how it works, I just do it. I wasn’t exactly interested in the details once I found the ship and my origins.” 

“But your father knew, or guessed that you would benefit from a yellow sun. He sent you here on purpose. You blend in enough to pass as one of us, even replicating the conditions that brought life to this planet light years away wouldn’t be exactly right to make you look as human as you do. Your cellular makeup is closer to what plants can do than reptiles. Even animals that change colors don’t absorb and reflect lightwaves like you do.” 

Clark tries not to feel insulted by the distinction of ‘us and them’ when Bruce talks about humans.

“Yes, Jor-El knew. Maybe we share a common ancestor somehow. The kryptonians sought out life beyond their own galaxy. They could have already known this was potentially habitable if they waited long enough.”

“Are you psychic?” Bruce asks abruptly, making some sort of leap in thought Clark doesn’t want to particularly follow.

“I don’t think so, no, I can’t read minds.” Clark rolls his eyes, but something sparks his memory of Zod and the conversation they had about his father and the Codex. He’d passed out on the ship and Zod hadn’t been there when he had woken up, but he had been in his mind. Zod had known details he hadn’t even asked for.

“You remembered something.” Bruce says sharp-eyed as ever.

“Zod, he did something.” Clark is careful with the wording, knowing Bruce wouldn’t receive the news well no matter what. “When I was on his ship, my body couldn’t handle the Kryptonian atmosphere and I passed out, but he still talked to me somehow. It was like a dream, or a nightmare I guess.” He grimaced as he remembered the end, being swallowed up in the sea of skulls. 

“So, in theory, you could have the same ability.” It’s flat, deliberately empty of reaction. 

Clark shakes his head, “No, I don’t think so. I’ve never managed to do that with anybody.”

“How would you even know?” Bruce always has to be the devil’s advocate. 

“I’ve lived with my parents and strangers and Lois for the past 38 years, I think I would know if I got inside their minds or dreams or subconscious.” He says, trying for logic instead of giving into his frustration. 

“You’re charming, likeable, unassuming when you try, you moved around easily when you were searching out your past, you probably talked your way in and out of trouble more than enough times in school and in your workplace. I don’t think you’ve done a bad interview in your life” Clark flushes.

“I don’t manipulate people into liking me.” He snaps out, winding up with anger.

“No,” Bruce agrees mildly, “not intentionally, but I don’t think you can chalk it up to reading social cues and overhearing the right conversations _all_ the time. There’s several practices around the world that think human beings are capable of willing things into existence by just concentrating very hard. Maybe Kryptonians achieved that. Diana believes the greek gods lived, Barry talks about speed like it’s a living thing, Curry’s friend Meera can manipulate water without any sort of tool. The limits of the past don’t apply to the world we’re living in, and you’re the proof of that in more ways than one.” 

Clark’s anger simmers down into something like disbelief and surprise that Bruce had de-escalated and given him a few backhanded compliments along the way. 

“Let’s get on the jet and find a place to break the laws of gravity.” Bruce offers him a small smile that leans more into a smirk.

“And then I can teach you how to throw a punch instead of relying on super strength.” 

-

It's his first patrol and Nightwing is his chaperone for the evening. 

"How much of a jinx would it be if I asked you how many times regular patrols end up being real Gotham emergencies." Clark asks like he isn't tempting fate already. He can't see Nightwing's eyes so his facial expression is harder to read but he thinks there's surprise written somewhere in the corners of his smile. It's been two years post-resurrection and Clark knows more about Richard Grayson from the papers than from the man himself. 

Bruce talked about his son obliquely, and his ward even less. And the memorial in the Cave had been removed months ago without a single word, even with Barry prodding in the way only he could get away with.

He's met Nightwing in an official capacity a handful of times. Bruce knowing he could easily see through the disguise made Clark feel somewhat special, included in the club of knowing the civilian identities that matched the superheroes but it didn't net him any trust over the matter. 

"Huh. When I got the call, I wasn't sure how it had shaken out but you've got a different stance and everything.” He tilts his head just slightly enough for him to realize he’s being scrutinized. If the training session taught him anything, it was that Bruce was an exceptional example of human prowess and kept his body in peak physical shape for his age.

Clark had never been the type to do any sort of weight training but he appreciated the effort it took now, being in Bruce’s body.

"Is the cape heavy?" Nightwing asks. "I had to wear it once for a mission." He nods his head toward the suit. 

Clark thinks about it. It's certainly different from his own get up. More pieces and denser than his, it fit more like armor than clothing and the helmet was uncomfortable and constricting against his cheeks and forehead. It was heavy but mostly it was grounding, like the pressure of the bat mantle physically manifested. He'd never felt more human.

"Not really," but he can see why Nightwing would disagree. His uniform is the hybrid child of a racing suit and a spandex suit. It wasn’t intimidating but it fit Nightwing, the man trying to carve out a space for himself instead of being a partner in crime for the Bat.

The comms crackle and Alfred’s voice calls their attention, “Gentlemen, there seems to be a gas leak on the corner of Grand and Pickney, the sort a certain clown favors for a laugh.” 

“Oh, great. Remind me to cross Waller off of our christmas card list. He’s been extra annoying since Harley decided to strike off on her own. I’m all for women's empowerment especially to get away from that creep but it just doesn’t seem fair that we have to deal with his bruised ego as a trade off.” Nightwing hands him a tablet from his utility belt.

“Counteracts the Joker venom for four hours. We tried for double but it would have to come in liquid form for that sort of potency. I don’t really feel like getting a shot in the middle of a fight.” 

The pill is chalky in his mouth but doesn’t have any after-effect he can pinpoint. Nightwing holds out his grappling hook gun and steps out onto the ledge. 

“Welcome to a regular tuesday in Gotham, big guy.” He shoots, jumps, and lands gracefully on the roof of another building. Clark isn’t particularly religious, but he mumbles something out half a prayer, half pep talk and launches himself through the air. The free fall feeling is drastically different in this body that is definitely not made for flying. His arm feels the strain of the steel and his weight. Distantly, he remembers Bruce saying something about his vestibular system being different to support being airborne back when Barry had first wagered on who would be faster. 

“Not bad,” is all the praise he gets once he lands. “Only seven or so more swings to go.” 

It takes him exactly ten to get to where the truck is on fire and pouring smoke that makes his eyes water reflexively but doesn’t give him any urge to laugh uncontrollably until exhaustion or death.

“The Bat of Gotham, here to save the day,” He jumps at the volume of the shout and ducks half out of instinct. 

Dick does an aerial trick flip to land on top of one of the henchmen in charge of fanning the flames quite literally. Clark drops from the roof to glide to the circus tent that looked completely out of place on the street lined with bodegas and small businesses. He only sees the chalky white makeup flaking around a grin before dodging the swing of a crowbar and doing some creative side stepping to avoid getting a knife embedded in the cowl.

“I missed our little talks, Bats.” He laughs in that signature grating tone. The Joker is a lot less intimidating in the flesh, tall in the way that only makes him look sharp at the joints. The maniacal gleam of his blown pupils and the long stretch of his smile makes up for the almost ordinary looking man in an ill-fitting suit. The Joker jumps away from every blow he tries to land, slippery to a fault while abandoning the crowbar to try to slash at him with a wickedly sharp blade in his hand for a few paces.

He grabs his wrist, grinding the bones and putting pressure on the nerve to make him drop the knife, turning his head just enough for the Joker to get a swipe in with three small blades between his knuckles. Clark brought up his arms before he could capitalize on stabbing him through the shoulder Bruce already had problems with. He headbutts him hard which only makes the other man fall with a strange little cackle as his nose bleeds into his makeup and mouth.

“Stand down,” he says, the voice modulator harsh in his ears. 

The Joker licks at his own blood with an unsettling stare on him, still smiling as if he’d gotten a gift instead of a beating.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that, Batsy. Make it really hurt.” His grin turned sharp before he lunged and rolled on the concrete to rescue his crowbar from where it was on the ground and his swing hit its mark, bringing him down to his knees with a grunt. Even through the molded armor that absorbs most of the blow, it aches. The Joker tuts as he draws his gun on him, tapping the barrel against the part of his face that was exposed. Clark tamps down on the fear of getting Bruce’s body shot and raises his hands up slightly from the ground. 

“Guns are so funny, you know? Just a simple little trigger pulled and BAM,” His voice is frenetic, high with madness and Clark wonders just what made the Joker into this, what trigger was pulled for him to become the type of criminal that laughs in the face of their enemy without a care. He won’t be able to reach the knife in time, not before Joker shoots. The panic button that could emit a siren that would distract him long enough wasn’t in reach without tipping Joker off. He stalled.

“You won’t shoot.” It comes out steady even as he sweats inside the suit. 

He leans in, face finally losing its smile. 

“Wanna bet on it,” It’s a taunt from a madman with losing odds. He turns the gun to butt up against his left cheek. “Batsy, Batsy, Batsy, you won’t let me have any fun, and Gotham needs a lot of it. And when I don’t get what I want, well, I get a little craaazy.” He laughs but the look in his eyes doesn’t hold any sort of mirth, just danger as serious as a heart attack.

“Harley is still ignoring you huh?” Nightwing tackles the clown into the pavement, kicking the gun away before the Joker reacts, trying to bite him in retaliation as they roll around on the ground. 

Clark gets up to help, unsteadily fighting against the adrenaline before the Joker wriggles out a small square packet from somewhere and throws it down between them, a plume of yellow dust dispersing into the air before a horn blares out La Cucaracha outside. Nightwing is gagging and Clark isn’t doing much better, the smoke was thick with something that coated his tongue with a foul taste.

“Sorry boys, gotta run.” Joker cackles as his shadow darts out of the tent. Clark uses the heat sensors on his goggles to get to Nightwing and help him up. 

“We can still go after him.” Dick chokes out, trying to cover his mouth with a hand but he had been closer to the impact of the mystery agent in the air. Clark tugs him along to the exit, making a decision to let the Joker get away and figure out more about what he had attacked them with instead. He doesn’t care if Bruce would make a different call, not with Dick possibly inhaling something more dangerous than that maniac. 

“No, we’re gonna collect some samples of whatever that is and get you to a decontamination shower and possibly a doctor. There will be other chances to lock him up.” Clark limps into a pivot before Nightwing stops him with a hand on his arm. Police sirens in the distance mean their time is up. 

“Gordon will get us a sample. We have to go.” 

They fire their hooks silently. Clark mulls over the danger Bruce is in constantly with the deranged little circle of Gotham criminals that read as exaggeration at best and fictional at worst in the news. Metahumans seemed to be popping up more and more across the world but regular humans were still a dark and true threat to Batman as proven by the Joker. 

Clark had never had to fear for his life in the skirmishes and situations he got involved in as Superman. Bruce did it every night and bested it with just his wits. 

-

It takes him twenty minutes to summon up the courage to tackle what Bruce calls business attire. The three piece suits make him feel every inch of the kansas farm boy he’d hammed up for the sake of subterfuge. 

The last couple of days he had gotten by with remote conference calls but Alfred had informed him this appointment was one he had to show up for in person. Walking up to a building with the name he’s borrowed for the time being was intimidating in a way he hadn’t expected but he took a deep breath and steeled himself to take this challenge on.

“Oh,” Tim’s enthusiasm drained out of him the moment he stepped into the office. “I thought you coming back here meant the issue was taken care of.” 

Clark is really kind of irked by every one of these kids sussing him out faster than Karen Lang sniffing out Ma’s molasses cookies.

“What did I do this time?” It’s a learning experience, he tells himself. A learning experience on just how much he doesn’t know about Bruce and his world. 

Tim gestures down towards his shoes. 

“It’s not really a mistake, just I don’t think he would wear those Berluti with that suit.” Fashion wasn’t Clark’s strong suit at all. He had just liked the shape of the shoes. The silence held a frisson of tension that made Clark wonder if it wasn’t just the body swap that had made things weird between Bruce and Tim.

“What’s that?” He asks, because it’s the polite thing to do, and clearly the reason Tim had been smiling before he’d seen him. On the desk behind him was a mess of wires and tools, but clearly it was some sort of four legged creation.

“It’s Cer-B, Cerberus was a little too long for prospective marketing purposes. It would be released under the umbrella of Wayne Corp instead of Industries since we mostly deal with medical application and pharmaceuticals. I still think there’s a market in robotic animal companions we could tap into but Bruce isn’t really comfortable with that.” 

“Why not? That sounds great.” He says a little too enthusiastically for Bruce’s grave voice.

“It’s a niche you could easily sink millions into without getting the results you want, and he isn’t fond of robots that are adaptive enough to simulate intelligence. Slippery slope between fully realized machines and all that.” Tim shrugs. 

“Didn’t know he was a terminator fan.” He jokes.

“Come with me if you want to live.” Tim says dryly, but Clark thinks he’s made progress on gaining his approval.

Tim gives him a small tour, pointing out that most of the heavy work wasn’t done in these offices, but Bruce had retrofitted some of the floors after restructuring Wayne Corp into a company with better goals in mind and again, after Tim had come onboard. The research labs weren’t usually under his oversight, but the personnel seemed to recognize him well enough, either hurrying to seem busy or nodding in greeting before getting back to work. 

The upper levels were less populated by lab coats and computer jockeys, but the difference in attitude was stark with only the secretaries and assistants smiling or meeting his eyes. 

“A chilly reception out there,” He says as they close in on the office marked only with a simple nameplate on a solidly thick door. Tim hums out agreement before keying a code in what Clark had mistaken for a light control board. 

He knew Bruce took his security seriously, but the faint buzzing that started after Tim finished punching in the buttons was just a little disconcerting.

“Bruce coming in usually means bad news for the board. They hate innovation unless it makes them money. Case in point, me taking over for Lucius, who is probably enjoying the beaches of Hawaii right now instead of having George Lewis junior look at him like he’s an alien. He’s two microaggressions from getting hacked.” Tim informs him without pause or looking up from his phone.

Clark hesitantly goes over to his side of the desk. The whole office looked like a staged display of opulence, which he guesses was the point. It’s completely at odds with the mental image he had in his head. Even as Clark Kent, Daily Planet reporter, he had never ventured into the Gotham offices. He definitely would’ve been afraid of breaking something if he was in his regular body. It was a strange juxtaposition of how Bruce flaunted his wealth typically and how he flaunted it when he was in character. 

“Should I talk to him?” Tim shakes his head.

“I can take care of Mr. I go to the gym three times a week to work on my glamour muscles by myself. If he can play nice with our chinese investors, he can learn to play nicer with me despite my age.” Tim says cooly, meeting his eyes directly, unnervingly calm.

“Okay. Uh, _do_ I have bad news to give?” Clark asks, going back to the start of the conversation. 

“No, but Bruce makes time on Wednesdays to take me out to lunch. I tend to get lost in my projects if someone doesn’t pull me away.” 

“I can do lunch.” Clark is feeling a bit peckish, even with the late breakfast. Tim raises an eyebrow, as if doubting that he can act like Bruce through a meal-time excursion. Clark gets the feeling that Dick is a lot more charitable than Tim when it comes to taking his mentor’s place.

They pull up to a quiet restaurant in a car service that Tim had called ahead for, so Clark didn’t have a clue as to where they were going to eat or what he should prepare for. The interior is lit dimly even with the sun shining brightly outside. 

“Mr. Drake, Mr. Wayne,” the host greets them and seats them at a cloth-covered table that is far too large for just the two of them. The booth seating was plush and pristine. Tim takes a position that gives him a full view of the entrance. Clark swallows down a sigh, shaking his head behind the menu for a second before realizing it wasn’t full of items that were unpronounceable or strange. He sets it down with a slight smile at Tim.

“I could’ve chosen the new sushi bar downtown, but I thought this was more your speed.” He says matter-of-factly, but Clark can tell he was looking for approval in the way teenagers usually did.

“I have been out of the state you know.”

“I do know, but you’re so all-american.” Tim says the word like he’s imitating a particularly besotted news anchor. 

“It took me a long time to see myself that way.” Clark responds easily, aiming to take Tim by surprise. The waitress interrupts them to take their orders.

“I’ll have a burger, medium well, thanks.” 

“So, how are your classes going?” He takes a drink from his water glass. Tim taps at the table in a sort of twitch, his face shifting into something less controlled and more like a teenager who is exasperated by normal things like schoolwork and teachers.

“It’s all fine, except for this one guy in my Thermodynamics class. He’s a big fish in a small pond. I guess it just comes with being a Luthor in Metropolis. I asked Lucius to look into his hawaiian mansion story but it all checked out. He’s just another entitled asshole with too much money to spend. I know Robin Hood isn’t exactly our usual style but if there’s anybody who deserves to get robbed for a little distribution of wealth, it’s definitely him.” Tim mutters out.

“A Luthor?” Clark repeats, a little stunned. What were the odds of Tim sharing a class with a Luthor. 

Tim waves a hand in dismissal, “He’s a distant relation, don’t worry, I’m doing an extensive background check on him. I thought you would’ve heard of him by now. He’s been staying in Central City with Lena Luthor while she tries to scrub the megalomania off of LexCorp. Lena tolerates Gotham as much as lobster enjoys a hot pot of water. I wish I could say the same for Connor. I’ve seen him at Brise twice already. I took a morning class load to avoid this type of nuisance.” 

Clark thinks Lena Luthor taking in a kid rings a faint bell, but he doesn’t remember any details, mostly just Lois on a tirade about corporate branding and the construction on L street making her commute even longer. 

“Should I be persuading you to let go of this grudge and stop you from digging into this Connor’s bank statements or browser preferences?” Clark tries not to look too eager at his plate finally getting to the table. Tim looks at his baked Cod with polite indifference until the waitress leaves. 

“Like you could stop me, I’ve seen your set up at the Planet. You haven’t changed your passwords in the last six months.” He says, pitching his voice lower, to let the ambient noise rise over the words. 

“I guess not, but if I ask Alfred nicely, he might be able to help me.” Clark replies with a smirk.

Tim squints, pained in the way all teenagers in the face of consequence seem to be trained in.

“Alfred plays dirty.” He pauses, “I guess I won’t wage war on his wi-fi enabled devices, _if_ you let me have the keys to the Verti for the weekend.” 

Clark laughs. 

“I guess I can live with that. I didn’t think you were a fan of racing. That seems more of Dick’s style.” 

Tim pokes at his fish, “I may have overheard him bragging about taking his MV Agusta out for a ride at the tracks on Friday. Dick taught me, I have my license. It’s not the worst. I prefer fast cars over fast bikes but there are advantages to using two wheels sometimes.” He takes a delicate bite.

Clark flashes back to seeing Bruce weaving through traffic on his motorbike. 

“Yeah, I guess I can see that. You can have the bike for the express purpose of leaving this kid in your dust.” He personally prefers no wheels, but he understands the urge to get a win against a bully. 

Tim smiles at him for the first time. It’s a small gesture but it makes Clark feel like he’s earned something much bigger than surviving lunch with Bruce’s ward.

The restricted number had called last night, and during the board review, and now, when he was using the pretense of checking up on Tim to avoid going out in the rain for a little longer. Tim looked up at the buzzing phone from his work on screwing in a plate on Cer-B, annoyance silent but present.

He picks up. 

“Bruce, we need to talk.” Clark taps at the table to get Tims’ attention and gestures that it was a woman who didn’t introduce herself. Tim mimes out a hang up sign.

“I can’t talk right now.” Gruff and curt. He mentally apologizes to his mother for not using his manners or her preferred method of dispatching phone nuisances with backhanded sweetness wrapped in faux-politeness. 

“It’s a matter of the future of the name Wayne and the house of al-Ghul.” He mouths al-Ghul to Tim who only repeats himself, smacking his own palm in emphasis of hanging up. 

“It’ll have to wait. I’ll call you.” He finally does as he’s told, ending the call. Tim groans into his hands.

“You picked up a call from Talia al-Ghul. Bruce is going to murder us both. You hung up on Talia al-Ghul. I might as well hang up my cape right now.” 

“You told me to,” Clark points out. 

“I didn’t know it was Talia al-Ghul!” Tim hisses out sharply. Dawning horror widens his eyes comically. “You told her _you_ would call. I don’t know what the deal with them is but I know he would never say that. She definitely knows you’re not him with that alone.”

“She called multiple times. I thought it could be important. What was I supposed to say? Who is she?”

Tim grimaced, “I don’t really know, and trust me I’ve tried to get him to talk about it.”

-

"Alright, spill. You've been keeping weirder hours than usual and going on weird distant heroing calls. And the flu excuse again? You're lucky Perry isn't in to ream you out."

He thought he had done well enough considering the circumstances. Bruce had gone through a time of monitoring Clark after his return, to watch out for signs of disorientation or anything else that could be a potential problem, but Lois had adapted remarkably to the challenge of keeping on top of all things Clark for a time.

So getting cornered in the dusty archives of the Planet wasn’t in the plans.

“I thought it was Kara again at first, since you didn’t pick up your phone. Contrary to your belief, long, thirteen part texts don’t make me worry less. So you disappear for a week citing being a walking biohazard, pull an ‘aw shucks’ farm boy routine on _Larry_ , actually start an email chain of your own free will, and you stopped wearing that drugstore perfume your mom insists on getting you.” She ticks off her fingers in the low light, dust motes following her motions.

“Oh, and you did a fly-by by my apartment and didn’t knock on the window to be an asshole. So,” she leaves it hanging, threatening with only a slight narrowing of her eyes. 

He had questions, but knew he was better off answering hers. It was one thing to keep up the charade when he didn’t have a choice, it was another to actively deceive one of Clark’s closest people. 

“I thought that’s how he doled out compliments, earnestly. It was a little dry for congratulating the Marvels on getting to the semifinals, but it wasn’t terrible.” Lois only huffed.

“Who or what are you? I have half a dozen speed dials with power you can’t imagine.” She jabs her finger into the air just above where the symbol would be on Clark’s suit. She would know how much that could hurt her. Bruce was still adjusting to the easy strength the Kryptonian came with. 

“I’m Batman, in Clark’s body. There was a magical incident.” He drops the affable attitude, the hunch, and his hands go up. Honest and open.

“So you’re living out a freaky friday?” She asked, skepticism written all over her face, “What did the Batman offer me in return for my help two years ago?” 

“A condo,” He didn’t flinch.

“And what did I say?” Lois’s voice goes high and sugary sweet. 

“You refused, told me to take a hike into the bay with weights on.” He always thought it was better to ask forgiveness than to ask for permission but he didn’t regret warning Lois that he was going to attempt the impossible. A miracle needed as much belief as it could stand, and the Mother boxes were just a shortcut to make impossibilities possible. 

Lois sighs. 

“Okay, a freaky friday, in the grand scheme of everything since I bullied my way into Clark’s life isn’t exactly high on the list of weirdness but we’re eating dinner tonight, Mr. Ji’s at my place and don’t bring Clark with you. I’ll lay into him at some other point in time without warning or mercy.” 

-

“Did you order Clark's usual or do you have the same tastes in as spicy as possible?" Lois spears broccoli with her fork in one hand, her phone in the other and a tablet balancing on her lap. He had shown up right on time and Lois had barely said a word of greeting before taking the takeout bags from his hands. Every second of silence felt like a challenge to break it. Bruce had never seen Lois in her natural habitat and she seemed to be capitalizing on it now, perched on the couch like a predator in oversized comfort clothes.

"They recognized me. I got stuck making small talk while they worked on your order. I figured it would be easier to not add anything." Bruce hasn't touched the noodles yet but his nose tells him enough about the extra heat.

Lois taps at the screen, feigning being absorbed instead of irritated.

"You could have. Jimmy tags along sometimes for movie night, brings bad B-movies with costumed disasters." She stops fussing with whatever is on her tablet, setting it aside for the carton of rice.

Bruce stares at the spread on the coffee table, mugs and papers and the spilled contents of a purse all in the middle of a living room that once was both Clark and Lois' but was now just hers. Bruce didn't ask and Clark didn't tell, but Martha still sent her baked goods so he knew bygones were bygones and their relationship hadn't suffered too much from the dissolution. Clark had moped and Lois had taken more assignments overseas. It seemed counterproductive to Bruce but they had managed to settle into something like friends in the end.

"I would offer coffee but I'm sure I don't have the stuff you're used to and Clark usually drinks tea at home but I don't, so I only have the brand he likes." Her tone is artificially friendly.

"I can drink tea." Bruce knows platitudes aren’t what she wants. She’s looking for a fight in the only realm she can manage to really hit him. 

Lois snorts, ugly and low.

"I am pissed off and I'm not giving you any tea. Magic isn't an excuse to try to pull the wool over my eyes for the sake of your ego. We have an open communication pact because the last time Clark went off to deal with something on his own, he was killed. I’m sure you remember that well enough." She says acerbically.

"I asked him to not contact you or anybody else until this situation was resolved. It would be harder to explain on his end than on mine if any discrepancies in routine were noticed." He explained stiffly. 

"I _know_ that. That isn't the problem. Him going along with that stupid decision is. You don't trust anybody but yourself, but he can trust me to spin a very convincing lie to meet with a billionaire. I'm a journalist, not an idiot. So what, you trust me enough to stop my zombie fiance but not enough to tell me when you've switched places?" She got up on her feet, to berate him with more emphasis, hands on her hips.

"Yes," is all he can offer, because he still hasn't forgotten that vivid nightmare of Barry visiting him, warning him from a future that may still happen despite checking and double-checking any anomalies. He even asked Barry if he would consider growing out his hair at some point to which he had rambled about his dress code for an hour before saying no but facial hair would be a solid maybe. 

The relationship between Lois and Clark was something he felt compelled to monitor. The sake of the world might depend on it someday.

Lois sighed, fetching another mug from the cramped kitchen area and putting it in front of him.

"Your business ethics piss me off and you could be doing more good than you are with what you have. I don't agree with having a 17 year old running your R&D department with a future shoe in to be CEO but he's got a good head on his shoulders and is obviously a better option for whatever the future of your company might need from a public figure." 

He takes a sip of the mug. 

It's water.

"Thank you for your honest opinion." He avoids her glare.

"Trust me, that's not even half of my honest opinion." She huffed out.

"Clark never understood why I thought deep down the Batman had to be bad news, because Clark always wants to see the good in people. And once he had come around to that idea, it ended up being you." 

He doesn't know if that proves her wrong or Clark wrong. Lois sits back down. 

"You want so badly for everyone to prove you right that you don't believe it when something genuinely good is right in front of you. Clark was that for me. I hope you can learn to trust in him soon because it'll only hurt if you don't." She exhales slowly, gearing up for the final blow. 

"Lois," Bruce chokes soundlessly, fear squeezing his throat, but still trying to form the words, anything to redirect the conversation he doesn’t want to have with the only woman who held the love of a god, long enough to make a mark.

She turns, head held high but without pity or regret or anything like anger left in her eyes, just the clarity of time and truth left behind. 

"Bruce, I know your secret, and I think it’s been long enough keeping it quiet.”

A fatal hit with words, the way Lois only could deliver.

-

Bruce shows up in the black and silver version of his suit. 

“I wanted to see how the ship worked for you. Thought I would blend in more.” It looks odd and Clark doesn’t know how to feel about Bruce walking through the Fortress alone. He doesn’t expect to have any secrets left after that. Bruce was a never-ending maze of secrets and it was grating and humbling at the same time. Clark felt compelled to keep searching out for answers but knowing Bruce would only pull away with good reason.

“Who’s Talia?” He asks, without really thinking about it, instead of the real question he wants to ask. It’s been two days of radio silence, playing a futile game of telephone. 

Bruce tenses, coiling up with borrowed power that fits him better than the Bat version of the Superman suit. He wonders again, if there is some world out there where Bruce Wayne was the one granted superpowers and Clark was the normal one. It’s a wish he doesn’t dwell on often, being normal. He had accepted his fate long before this spell. 

“Talia is someone who should’ve stayed in my past, but life keeps bringing us together. The first time we met, I was 16. Her father, under the guise of doing business with Wayne Industries, had brought her to a company gala. She hated me instantly but insisted on taking care of me when I ended up in downtown Gotham to keep the party going. I think she wanted to blackmail me or at least have proof of how I was an inferior candidate for the al-Ghul empire.” Bruce doesn’t sound fond or nostalgic, compartmentalizing until the very end. His hands deliberately spread to give nothing away.

Clark had done his own digging, spooked at every restricted unknown number that came across the screen of Bruce’s phone. Talia and her family were known in certain sectors of the world. Rich in ways that seemed impossible to fathom, the al-Ghuls were like royalty in the middle east, if royalty dealt with clean energy resources. The infamous Ra’s al Ghul had stepped down around a decade ago as the face of their empire, leaving the path clear for Talia who had done well to modernize the company. 

“I went to college that fall. Her sister Nyssa was a bit younger than me, but we made a good team for a time being the youngest in our classes. Talia would visit from time to time, to discourage Nyssa from becoming too attached to American customs and remind her of her place. I dropped out after two years and ended up in Nanda Parbat with Talia. Of course, that went along the lines of what Ra’s wanted and after I found out why he wanted me to be his successor instead of his own daughters, I left.”

“Bruce,” He doesn’t know what to add, the mounting discomfort warring with the amount of questions popping up with the additional information.

“You wanted to know, Clark.” He could practically hear the ‘you reap what you sow, Clark’ from his Ma.

“I didn’t think it would be so _personal_.” The few tabloids he had stumbled across had only speculated on their closeness. It was a familiar tactic that Clark has seen time and time again with Bruce’s business associates that were marginally attractive and under 40. Any time Diana showed up in Gotham, there was a fresh buzz of interest around Bruce’s love life.

“Your Kansas sensibilities are showing. I _was_ legal the first time we slept together.” Only with Bruce, would that be some sort of olive branch peace offering to show he wasn’t angry at bringing up old wounds.

“Legal in what part of the world,” Clark muttered darkly, suddenly regretting everything very acutely.

“I heard that. Ra’s and Talia are my problem to handle. Ra’s doesn’t take rejection well. Saying no to him is a crime in some parts of the world.” Clark doesn’t smile at the volley. 

“What about Talia? How does she handle rejection.” He pries just a little more, silently asking for forgiveness.

Bruce shrugs, rubbing his palms against the metallic weave on his thighs.

“That was the issue for a few years. Saying no to her wasn’t my strong suit.” Clark felt winded, inexplicably jealous, wounded, and annoyed. He couldn’t meet Bruce’s eyes, staring down the facade of the building.

“Because you were in love with her.” He forced the words out. 

“Our relationship wasn’t much of a good one. Deep down, I knew I couldn’t change her and she knew I wouldn’t change for her either, so she still calls and I don’t answer.” 

“Jesus, Bruce.” He leans back, the ball of squirming emotion settling low inside him. Clark knew he wouldn’t want to hear empty words but he wanted to say _something_. Bruce had changed. He wasn’t the same Bruce that fed into that cycle with Talia and he wasn’t the same Bruce that had wanted to take Superman down. This conversation had proved that much. 

“You never mentioned having a cousin.” He changes gears the only way Bruce knows how, forcefully

If it’s a trade Bruce wants, Clark will give it to him. Kara isn’t the ball of complicated that al-Ghul is.

“She isn’t a secret,” He gets out in a hurry, because she isn’t really. Jimmy and Lois had met her already. “Kara doesn’t visit that often. She’s still figuring out how to juggle being super on Earth so it’s easier for me to visit her. Luthor Corp doesn’t need another reason to get more government funding. She’s been on earth since Black Zero.” He winces, bringing that up with Bruce wasn’t the best way to start.

“She was trapped in the Phantom Zone with the others, but her transport ship wasn’t originally part of it. She got stuck when her parents managed to get her off-planet before Krypton was destroyed. I’m not exactly sure how, but she basically spent a better part of her teenage years stuck in stasis and the rest here on earth. She’s a good kid.” Clark sighs. 

“But?” Bruce prods after a few seconds.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how to connect with her. She’s got her own life, her own family. She only really remembered we were related after I had died. The Danvers are very protective of her and I get the feeling I’m not exactly a welcome guest. I think they think I’m going to be a bad influence with all the super stuff.”

Bruce makes a noise like the cross between a cough and a snort. 

“Is she an adult?” 

“She took me out drinking a few weeks before we switched.” Clark smiles at the memory. Kara was so excited to order drinks in the crowded bar that she had muscled her way through a pack of fraternity brothers without even one apology.

“She can’t get drunk off of regular alcohol.” Bruce pointedly doesn’t ask so much as states.

“No,” he agreed, “but she got a kick out of ordering ridiculously named shots and we can still taste the flavors of mixed drinks. She liked margaritas the best and made me finish her long island iced tea because she thought it tasted peppery.” 

“Did you even try to introduce her to the merits of a good wine?” Bruce sounded slightly amused even as his profile didn’t change. 

“We weren’t at one of your clubs, Bruce. I wasn’t going to be overcharged for a bottle of spoiled grapes when I could have shots in every color of the rainbow for less at Lucky’s.” 

“That probably makes for a better time than a good Riesling.” He says dryly before sobering up with a twist of his mouth. Something wistful crossing his face for a brief second. “If you want my advice, Kara is the one in charge of her own decisions. No matter who or what they blame for it, she’ll ultimately make her choices. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from raising my sons, it’s that they find their own identities with or without your input. If Kara wants you in her life, you should do your best to do so.” 

It’s in these specific moments when Clark feels the gap between their respective ages. Bruce had lived a whole life without Clark’s help. He’s been fighting against the tide for so long without an end in sight that he’d forgotten how to be at rest. Clark doesn’t think Bruce _can_ stop or even wants to, because he fights for Dick and Tim and everybody else that hasn’t been warped by the underbelly of Gotham and beyond. 

It’s the purpose he gave himself, and he would rather die without the recognition he deserves than live without trying to make the world better.

“Thank you, Bruce.” He's heartfelt in his gratitude, even knowing Bruce deserved more.

\- 

“Is it unfair to admit I miss being me?” Clark asks, kicking out his feet from the ledge. The subject change makes Bruce relax just a little. Their current situation is much easier to navigate than unpacking the emotional minefields of the past and present. 

"You got the short end of the stick so, no, it's not unfair." He says.

"That is _not_ what I meant," Clark’s face belies his frustration.

"Bruce," he sighs out his name, a little like Martha when he didn't eat as much as she thought he should, or showed up with a bruise or injury to dinner. It had the same cadence of disappointment. 

The Kents, forever surprising him and putting up with Bruce being who he is without any sort of mask in front.

"I didn't mean your body is in worse shape than mine." He flexes his hands, stretching his arms out as if trying to catch the waning light of the sun setting.

"It's been two weeks since I've felt the sun the way I usually do." He explains quietly, voice solemnly stripped of pretense. Bruce doesn't think Clark knows he's basically pouting, but he won't point it out because they're stuck in this together and he's right.

Once upon a time, Bruce had made an unflattering comparison of Clark to a solar powered battery. Two weeks ago, he'd been thrown headfirst into realizing exactly how much Clark pulls back on his sheer strength and the basic rundown on his powers. Now though, he gets it. Bruce is well-versed in being out of control and being in control. 

Being Superman is a challenge like no other. The sun wasn't ever present on his mind before the switch beyond how much daylight he had to burn through being Bruce Wayne versus Batman. He's not a battery, but he is solar powered. As soon as dawn arrived, Bruce couldn't stand still, made laps around the city, around the world. Once, he had stayed above the clouds, drinking in the warmth of the sun filtering through the early morning. It was the closest to peace Bruce had ever felt. 

It was the complete opposite of what he had felt in the cavern, stuck in the dark and screaming for help.

"Like I said, short stick." He reiterates.

"You have to deal with x-ray vision. That one was the worst the first time around. Seeing skeletons walking around for a couple of months was not fun."

"I think hearing everything is worse." Bruce offers, trying not to think about his vision trouble. Clark had a sudden bout of averting his gaze with anyone he met on the street these past weeks because Bruce was tired of wrapping his head around focusing on surface level matter. 

But the hearing _was_ worse, sleep had eluded him until he had a conversation with Martha about what tactics to use and finally fell asleep at the farm.

"Yeah," Clark nods, "I don't really miss that." 

"I'm tired of being you too." Bruce confesses. Clark smiles with a borrowed grin.

"Not all it's cracked up to be, huh."

"And I'm not all the papers make me out to be either." He counters.

"Oh, I knew that from the beginning. I expected less costume changes between the boardroom and your bedroom. Those suits are not easy. Tim camps out in the mornings just to criticize my choices." 

He misses seeing Dick and Tim, wonders what Jason has been up to since the last time they fought. It was easier to refrain from contact and leave everything with Alfred when this had started, but a week more and he would have to reorganize his plans.

"He won't admit it to me, but I think he misses having you around instead of me." Clark's attempt at comforting is clumsy but earnest. Bruce doesn't want to know what gave him away, thinks it better to chalk it up to being out of body instead of inherently apparent.

"He went to Metropolis because it's his father's Alma mater. I told him he was making a mistake." 

Clark hums, "I thought the Drakes were an old Gotham family."

"On his mother's side. Jack married in, took the family name. He'll never forgive me for the legal battle and he'll never approve of my influence over Tim. I wanted him to go to Gotham U."

"Because it's closer?" Clark asked without a hint of derision for his adopted city's rivals.

"Because that's where his parents met. Janet was giving a concert that Jack attended. Tim is a lot like her.” 

“Did you tell him that or did you let him leave with the wrong impression?" 

"It's not wrong really. I'm selfish. I would rather have him on this side of the bay than anywhere else. I offered him Wayne Industries as an incentive to stay in Gotham." 

Clark faces him with a frown. 

"It's not selfish to want your family close or safe. You care."

“Caring doesn’t stop a threat. Caring can become a threat.” Bruce doesn’t say anything else, too aware of Lois’ presence like a ghost between them. Clark’s mouth flattens, pressing in, face closing off with too much lurking anger to pull off blank neutrality. 

“That’s not a reason you should let someone walk away.” 

Bruce laughs and it sounds wrong to his ears, like everything else since this whole thing started.

“We’re not talking about Lois and Metropolis.” He throws out as derisively as he can. Sweat beading at the back of his neck with the rush of treading dangerous waters.

“We’re not, but we could if you want. After all, you went to see her on Wednesday and stopped taking my calls afterwards. You’re not the only one who can figure out the missing pieces in a mystery. Tracking my phone was easy enough with all the computer power you have in the Cave.” Clark stays steadily on course, toeing the line between sounding accusing and triumphant.

“Lois had some opinions to share with me.” His heart rate ratchets up.

“About?” There isn’t an escape unless he wants to fly off the rooftop which he could do easily under Clark’s powers but Clark won’t let it go, will keep chasing him until he gets the answers. It’s a sick sort of rush knowing the tables have turned. 

“She thinks the spell has a purpose, an endgame.” Clark leans in, intent, listening, but Bruce is the one who can hear everything.

“The truth should set us free.” Clark’s eyes drop down to his mouth, dark and wide. 

“And what truth is that?” He whispers.

Bruce is well-versed in the feeling of a free-fall, but this cuts a chasm deep inside him, hungry with the longing of defeating gods and bringing them to their knees, a primal urge to ruin what should be untouchable. 

He shuts his eyes and gives in.

-

There’s a call lost in between kinetic bursts of hands and shedding clothes. 

“Bruce,” Clark drags his hands up to his own face, not quite believing he was in his own body after so long. Bruce rouses easily, from asleep to alert without a second to waste. The sun is barely filtering in through the blinds, more pink than anything else. 

“It worked.” Bruce says with something like disappointment mixed with sharp relief settling into his chest. 

“It did.” He replies. Clark feels doubt sit in the pit of his stomach heavily. Last night wasn’t a means to an end for him, but he couldn’t be sure about Bruce’s intentions, even with all they had gone through. He didn’t want to take anything at face-value.

Bruce sits up, telegraphs his movement, placing a hand on his wrist, slowly sliding up his arm. Distracting Clark from his thoughts with more recent memories, making his breath catch and drawing his eyes to Bruce’s face, open and honest. 

“Good, then I can do this.” He kisses him, taking his time to move away. “Being in the right body helps.”

“Uh yeah,” Clark says dazed.

“And you called _me_ the narcissist, Wayne?” John Constantine appears as he usually does, windblown and without a care on the balcony attached to the master bedroom.

Clark doesn’t quite contain his startled reflex to cover up but recovers admirably. 

“Hello, Bruce’s new boytoy, name’s Constantine and I see,” He holds up his fingers in a rectangle in front of his face to peer at the both of them after muttering something Clark couldn’t decipher even with super hearing. “you’ve solved your little dilemma by yourselves, grand. I’ll just be visiting with old Alfred for a spot of breakfast and be off then.” 

“Not so fast, John.” Bruce says.

“I’m not his boy toy.” Clark gets out at the same time. John gives him an exaggerated leer as he responds to Bruce.

“Oh, love, don’t you get short with me on the timing. It’s a delicate process, crossing dimensions for every one of your petty little crises is just not that important in the grand scheme of things. I was busy, and you managed just fine.” John crossed the room to pluck at Bruce’s tie collection, hemming and hawing over the selection.

“You can have breakfast, if you can tell us who is responsible for the spell and where they are currently.” 

“Bruce, don’t.” Clark squeezes his hand in warning. 

John thinks it over, lighting a cigarette in two practiced moves, conjuring fire out of his fingers after checking his pockets over.

“Breakfast and a bottle of your most expensive wine.” He negotiates.

“Breakfast and a bottle of that shit whiskey you live off of.” Bruce counters. Alfred was actually fond of John, leftovers would be included.

“Fine, I can do it, but I’m taking this too.” John swipes a cardinal red tie that is just a shade lighter than the one he currently has twisted around his neck, stuffing it into trenchcoat pocket. Bruce sighs, because it’s the principal of the matter, but a tie is replaceable, unlike the last thing John wanted from a bargain.

“Deal.” 

Constantine wandered off in the direction of the door, presumably heading downstairs to find Alfred, and Bruce makes a move to get up and get out of bed to follow. Clark keeps him by the hand, doesn’t force him to stay, the hold loose enough that Bruce can wiggle out of it. It’s a request above all else. 

“What are you going to do?” Bruce looks up at the question, and Clark clears his throat, “I mean when you find the magician?” He lets go of his hand, smoothing the path across the sheets in his lap and staying there. 

“Send him flowers, and a warning to keep magical incidents out of the streets.” Bruce’s deadpan goes better with his hair mussed from sleeping. It takes less effort for him to come across as joking without the layer of masks and costumes he had to put on throughout the day. 

“Send a fruit basket if you really want to send a message.” Clark suggests with a smile. 

“Zatanna did mention cursed bananas.” He murmured before picking out a white oxford and digging into the back of his closet for the Princeton sweatshirt and joggers he mostly used for running attire for Clark to put on if he wanted.

Clark’s eyes looked distant like he was listening to something else.

“Getting a call?” Superman always had work to do. Clark comes back with a faint huff of laughter. 

“No, Constantine has opinions on Alfred's breakfast menu.” 

Alfred could handle John, no matter how much he cajoled and threatened. 

“Stay for breakfast,” Bruce tells him.

Clark looks thoughtful for a moment, a serious groove between his brows before he relaxes, takes in Bruce with worn in fleece in hand, half-dressed and vulnerability on display. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

**Author's Note:**

> ....A Mr. John Murphy of Astoria Lane came home to a fruit basket with exactly one jinxed banana phone and an intimidating Red Hood sitting in his favorite recliner exactly a week later. 
> 
> and that's that! Thank you to the mods for hosting, thank you for reading, and please leave a comment if you enjoyed it.


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